


Ascension - Part III

by A_Thieving_Bird



Series: Ascension [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 10:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18150800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Thieving_Bird/pseuds/A_Thieving_Bird
Summary: A cold rebuff from Sansa and a quickly deteriorating mentorship role has left Lord Baelish reeling. When shocking news comes to Winterfell, he finds that she may once again desire his partnership, in more ways than one.This is not GoT canon but uses some quotes from the show, albeit a bit adjusted.Thanks and enjoy!





	Ascension - Part III

The next few months for Lord Baelish were torturous in their dullness and solitude. 

Sansa’s reproach of him after he confessed his desire for an affair of the heart had left him feeling more powerless than he had been since he was a boy. The goings on after that moment had proven even more excruciating. To add to the injury of being pushed away, it appeared that she had also shed herself of the need for him in the political aspects of her life of which he had even longer been a part.

Although Lord Baelish had in name maintained his role as Sansa’s mentor and advisor, she spoke to him less and less, instead exercising her long-nurtured political skills alone. However much it pleased him that she had become an expert regarding navigating the delicate yet brutal world of political tactic and alliance, it disheartened him that he was not partaking in it at her side, as they had discussed at the beginning of the winter. 

Their distance apart, in every sense of the word, had brought him to such a defeated state that he began to contemplate returning to The Eyrie. 

Sansa had indeed distanced herself a great deal from Lord Baelish. His revelation of love had provided her immediate clarity in the way of realizing that their relationship, however either of them interpreted it, carried with it the risk of exposing them both. She knew a most unfortunate and undesired distance between them was the only way to win the game that the two of them had for so long played. His tutelage had given her the wherewithal to realize that, and she prayed to the gods that he understood.

With every avoided stare, every curt conversation, and every failure to call on him for advice, she realized that his absence was creating a longing in her of a kind she did not understand. She began to feel an ache throughout the day different than any ache she had experienced in the past; it was an ache that for once was not one of hopelessness.

Every night, they put out the candles next to their respective beds and stared into the blackness, occasionally letting their eyes drift to the thick paned windows at the corner of the rooms, knowing that the other was possibly staring at the same night sky. The trembling flame of passion they both felt every single night could have set a thousand fires...but they were left with only a smoldered candle.

On an uncharacteristically snowless afternoon, Lord Baelish gazed out of the window of his chambers, unable to concentrate on things of the utmost importance to his Protectorship of The Vale. Matters of state faded into the ether as knots of passion, longing, and bruised ego twisted in his chest. Every person he could see going about their day below was a possible sighting of Sansa. Anyone with a dark cloak, red hair, or flawless posture resulted in a skipped heartbeat. What was worse, he would have felt unfortunate sentiments clouding his mind if he actually saw her. Still, he looked down at the people below for minutes at a time, longing to set his eyes upon her from any distance.

Walking into the center of the castle’s grounds came a portly man dressed in a dark cloak. Usually this would not be anything to think twice of, but the man’s hood was pulled back, exposing his balding head and large ears to the ice cold winds of Winterfell. Lord Baelish tilted his head to the side and looked at the man as if he was inspecting a horse’s gait. As chaotic as things had become in the North, it was second nature for anyone to be wary of things out of place. Lord Baelish’s already hypertuned reading of others had reached an otherworldly level. 

With a sudden tossing aside of the front of his cloak, the man grasped for something dangling from his belt. Lord Baelish’s view of the item was not clear, but he stated his prediction to himself in a low voice.

“A sword.”

The man pulled the item out, but instead of an aggressive course, he brought the item to his own face. Dark brown, not long, not straight.

It was a herald’s horn. 

Lord Baelish humphed at his misjudgment, but remained wary of what aggression might come from the herald’s message itself. Again, he whispered into the emptiness of his room.

“A herald’s horn can be as dangerous as a sword, it simply depends on who’s behind it.”

As he smirked at his own idiom and cataloged for use in the future, the herald blew.

The horn pierced the air with such volume that it almost rattled the thick glass through which Lord Baelish was staring. It was a sullen and sad sounding thing. All he could liken it to was the insolent moanings of a stubborn cow, refusing to be pulled back into her barn.

The herald shouted something that sounded like a list, but it was at first indecipherable. The combination of the muddled castle’s activities and his heavy northern accent obscured the message. He leaned his forehead against the glass and focused on the herald’s mouth as he spoke. His message rang clear this time.

“Lords, Ladies, Leaders of Houses, Captains, Advisors, Septuns, Bannermen...meet in the great hall at evening’s start! By order of Jon Snow!”

He repeated the message four or five times, ceasing for a few minutes in between to walk to each corner of the castle. By the third time, Lord Baelish’s keen mind had memorized the order, and what it implied. He was a Lord and an Advisor. Sansa was a Lady. He would not be denied her visage this day.

As early evening rang in, Lord Baelish strolled quietly into the great hall. Hushed conversations from others in attendance created obscure white noise, occasionally interrupted by the cough of an old man or the chuckle of a less serious-minded soldier. As the minutes ticked by, the winter winds which had been roaring in and out for days began to scream against the stone walls with fury. During an especially piercing scream of wind, Sansa entered the room. Tiny whirlwinds of loosened frost whipped around on the floor past her boots as the breeze from the entry hall rushed in. She stepped up the stone riser to the great table and took her seat, one from the middle. He imagined her stepping one pace further, and leading the north as queen...a visual that stirred warmth in him despite the winter’s wrath. 

The immense door drifted shut and mitigated some of the freeze from entering the hall. Not a minute after all had settled inside did Jon Snow enter. He barged into the hall without announcement, draped in his usual black vestments and with his raven colored hair drooping down over the sides of his face like a greasy curtain. 

Lord Baelish found himself fighting the incredible urge to sneer at him, so he twisted his shoe in between two uneven cobblestones to attract pain to his foot and not his expression. He leaned casually against the frigid stone wall, which gave him a view of both Jon Snow and Sansa through the crowd, but his eyes were attached to her face alone.

“Can we all come to attention, my countrymen.” shouted Jon.

His brogueish northern accent was as dreadful to Lord Baelish’s ears as the words themselves. 

“I have brought you all here to speak briefly on a matter of great importance. Ravens arrived this past night, with word from Daenerys Targaryen, who has landed with an army tens of thousands bodies strong in Dragonstone. She rides with armies from the east….and Tyrion Lannister.”

Several people gasped at the last revelation, as the youngest Lannister’s alleged actions had caused all Westerosi tumult. Not only that, but he was Sansa’s first husband, whose marital actions were of only sordid speculation amongst those in the room, aside from Sansa, Lord Baelish, and Jon.

Jon paused to allow the information to sink in to his subjects’ minds. After but a moment, Sansa drew a quick breath, turned towards him, and spoke loudly.

“Tyrion Lannister?! Jon, surely you must be mistaken.”

“It is what Daenerys Targaryen claims. He is her Hand. It appears he has torn up any remaining roots in King’s Landing and allied with this woman. He is small, but we cannot underestimate the man.”

A few men chuckled nervously at the misplaced jest, but quiet returned to the hall. Jon Snow spoke again.

“She calls on me to travel to her...to ally with her...to make plans for the future of Westeros….and I will go.”

Immediately, tense whispers and shuffling feet thickened the air. Sansa glanced at her half-brother for but a second before finding Lord Baelish in the crowd to lock eyes, eyes she had actively avoided for so long. Lord Baelish remained silent, but the ringing of energy in their stare proved deafening.

“My King, you mustn’t travel away during times like these!” shouted one Bannerman.

“Who will lead the North?!” fretted another.

Jon raised his voice and demanded calm.

“I know you put your trust in me, and I swear that I am not betraying, and will not betray, that trust. I believe the most urgent business of the kingdom is preparing for what stirs north of the wall, and the best way to do that is to ally with this queen. I am the best choice as she called for me specifically.”

Sansa sensed her opportunity to begin acting out a scene, and proceeded to guide the conversation towards her favor with expert subtlety. She had learned so long ago from Lord Baelish that often the best course of action was to make a move that seemed to work against her, so she played the part of an overly loyal subject.

“Jon, surely you cannot! who will lead in your stead?” she pined.

“Sister, that has been considered. I am also taking this meeting as an opportunity to name the person who will lead the North in my absence.” He turned and stared into her eyes. “Lady Sansa, I can think of no other person more capable than yourself. Your journey thus far, and your actions of late, inspire in me great confidence. I expect your answer now; what say you?”

Sansa relaxed the furrow in her brow and provided him with her answer in a caring tone.

“I will do what you ask of me.”

“Then it is settled” said Jon, slamming his hand down on the heavy table. “Lady Sansa will provide leadership as Protectress in my absence. She has my full confidence...she has never betrayed it, and she has never betrayed the North. Follow her as you would myself. I leave in two days’ time.”

No vocal responses came forth from the crowd. With a mix of wariness and loyalty, the men in the hall nodded in compliance with the king’s mandate. Sansa tilted her head to the side and reviewed the faces of the hard and ragged people below her. She knew now that she had the loyalty of the North by both mandate and inheritance, and with her half-brother away, she could easily maintain it.

“You are all free to leave. Carry on with me on matters for the rest of the day, after that my sister will take the helm. Ser Davos, I need to speak with you on ships.” said Jon, leaning to his left to closer meet the captain’s ear.

Sansa casually grasped a quill and jotted down something on a scrap of scroll paper. Likely a reminder to herself about her schedule or something of the sort, thought Lord Baelish. 

As she finished writing, she allowed her eyes to drift across the room to settle on Lord Baelish. Despite being half the length of the hall away, the blue of his eyes easily pierced through the distance. Maintaining her gaze, she stood up and interrupted Jon to notify him of her departure from the hall. She placed her delicate hand next to his on the rough table.

“I am going to return to my chambers. I would like to work on arrangements during your leave.”

Jon looked up at her calmly and grasped her hand.

“Yes, sister, you must do as you will.”

“You surely understand this is a lot, so if I coul-”

“What do you need?”

Sansa glanced over to Lord Baelish.

“At the moment...peace and quiet.”

Jon smirked at her, interpreting her glance as an implication that she desired even more distance from her advisor, his role now wavering.

“Yes of course. No one will disturb you this evening. I will tell the Guard Leader you are not to be disturbed in just a moment. You can mention it to your Chamber Guard yourself.”

He then leaned in and spoke to her further in a soft and reassuring tone.

“I know you will accomplish great things.”

If Sansa hadn’t known that Jon was incapable of subtlety or metaphor, she would have been suspicious of that comment, but she simply gave a soft smile before squeezing his hand and pulling away. She walked to the end of the table, stepped down the stone riser to the hall floor, and began her solitary journey back to her chambers. Lord Baelish’s heart began to race as she grew nearer, but her eye line and footsteps let him know that she was planning on passing him by without conversing. 

As she did so, he felt her hand grace the hem of his pocket. He waited a few seconds before reaching in, realizing it was scroll paper, likely the scrap on which she had scribbled just a minute earlier. He desperately wanted to bring it out into the light at that moment, but he knew it was of great secrecy. Only in a moment of solitude would he be able to receive her message. He was listening to Sansa engage in niceties of departure with some of the Lords when his ears were jolted by a displeased shout.

“Littlefinger!”

It was Jon, calling for him to come converse. Calling him by an old, undesirable nickname. Calling him like an unwanted pet. 

Still, Lord Baelish nodded gracefully and approached. He bowed with extreme subtlety and responded with a rote verse.

“King in the North.”

Jon stood up from his seat and stood on the stone riser, making himself almost twice as tall as Lord Baelish. Bracing both hands on the table, he looked down and spoke while sneering.

“I want to say something to you, Littlefinger, before I leave my sister here.”

Lord Baelish was instantaneously filled with rage at the nickname. It was a condescension; a reminder of the less than humble beginnings he had fought so hard to climb out of. 

“I am Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Protector of the Val-”

“I like Littlefinger better.” interrupted Jon.

Lord Baelish’s chest became puffed up a bit, and his jaw clenched in frustration as he inhaled deeply. He could only go so far with Jon before putting himself at risk of losing everything. It was that simple.

“Very well” he said, feigning a smile. “I look forward to your guidance.”

Jon smiled, seemingly pleased with himself for putting Lord Baelish in his place. That smile quickly faded as he reemed into Lord Baelish something he had grown to feel more strongly about than almost anything.

“If you ever try anything with her...manipulate her, usurp her, touch her...while I am gone, I will sail back here to kill you myself.”

Lord Baelish provided no argument and told a complete truth to a noble, one of the few in his life.

“Her success is my priority.”

Jon gave Lord Baelish a nod of acknowledgement, but the disgust in his eyes persisted. 

Their resentful gaze was broken as a door slammed shut, and Lord Baelish was given an opportunity to depart without further conversation. He gave an insincere bow, swiveled his foot, and left the hall at a quick pace. His hand slipped in his pocket to ensure that the paper was still there, and he stroked as softly as if he was soothing a sleeping animal.

About twenty yards down the hall of the west wing was a tiny alcove draped in tapestry, and Lord Baelish darted into it. Despite the ordered reduction in the use of fuel, the torch braced in the corner was lit and provided a decent amount of light. He drew the paper out of his pocket, unrolled it, and read.

In her simple, elegant script she had simply written “Come to me now.”.

His breath was taken from him. The recent news of her Protectoresship was the only reason he could gather she would want to see him. Despite the illogicality of his feelings, he succumbed to a brief fantasy that she wanted him again in the most intimate meaning of the word. He listened to the coldly logical side of his mind, however, and began his journey with no expectations of passion.

He stepped out of the alcove quietly and looked both directions. There were still several people in the area, but the news from the meeting had proven so shocking that everyone was entirely distracted by small groups of conversations. He avoided eye contact with all he encountered, their numbers less and less as he got closer to Sansa’s chambers. As he found himself at the beginning of the narrow hall that led to her door, he paused to take a deep breath and get his bearings one last time. 

A lone guard walked down the hall past her door, carrying a torch. Lord Baelish exhaled in disappointment, aching in every nerve and hating the guard who was preventing his progress. He was wracking his brain for possible ways to get around the obstacle, but then the guard stumbled.

Lord Baelish tilted his head to the side quizzically, before realizing that the sad sap was drunk. Very drunk. The guard pulled a wooden flask out of his pocket, undoubtedly filled with some wretched northern spirit, and took a sip. Upon returning it to his pocket, he leaned against the wall and groaned heavily. Lord Baelish remained silent and now became perfectly still, hoping the guard would continue with his vice long enough to give him an opening to see Sansa. 

He was graced with just that. The guard groaned again and shuffled towards a bench that sat at the corner of the hall and one perpendicular leading to the stairs, halfway out of view; his rough plop onto the bench and the sound of the torch being slipped into its wall sconce followed by an intense snort gave Lord Baelish just enough cause to all but scamper to her half-opened door. 

He placed his hand on the frame and swung himself into her bedchamber. Once he had passed over the threshold, he silently closed her door and backed against it.

The wind raged against her window, and she watched the last dulled sunlight linger in the overcast sky with no expression on her face. A gust of wind proved so strong that it snuck through the invisible cracks in the wall, and painful vibrations ran up her spine. As she shifted to get up and retrieve her furs, she noticed a figure against the door. As her eyes adjusted to the darker light on that side of the room, Lord Baelish came into view. He had been able to read her message. He was here. 

She relished the image of him backed against the door, his dark clothing melding with the wood and leaving the streaks of grey in his hair to stand out. Her heartbeat immediately quickened from both desire and tension. It had been so long since they had been alone that she briefly struggled to find the appropriate tone.

“Hello, Lord Baelish.” she started.

He gave a subtle bow with open hands, his expression laden with curiosity.

Sansa raised an eyebrow. 

“How is the guard?” she whispered.

Lord Baelish answered in his raspy lilt. “Drunk, I believe. Quite so.”

Sansa took a deep breath through her nose before speaking in a cold tone. “Good.”

She glanced at the lock on the door, silently urging him to further sequester them from the world.

Lord Baelish complied, and twisted the thumbturn. He turned around to find Sansa furrowing her brow, as if she was playing out a thousand outcomes for the moments they were about to share. He had seen her just a bit before, but he drank in the image of her before him now like a parched man would a glass of water. She had rid herself of the countless layers of warmth and the gentle braid that had become a signature of sorts. She was dressed for the evening in a simple white chemise. The light from her crackling fireplace filtered through the fabric, with shadows hinting at the shape of her thighs and hips. As his eyes lingered at the most secret parts of her body, those shadows spoke to him that she was wearing no underclothes. His heart skipped beats, then pounding in its own game of catch-up and causing pressure on his throat. He strained to swallow, the resulting contraction sending pangs of tenseness downwards.

Every bit of this meeting perplexed Lord Baelish. After all of the signals of a platonic, if not strained state between them, he could not reason as to why she had called on him, much less dressed so sparsely. A scream of frigid wind against the window brought him back to the situation at hand and allowed his inquisitive mind to take over the tense silence. He spoke to her in a skeptical tone.

“Lady Sansa, I am a bit confused...”

She stared at him intensely, providing no clarification and silent encouragement for him to continue.

“You rejected me after I...” He paused to gain composure and started again with words less geared towards his hurt pride. “We have barely spoken these past months.”

“I had to. Closeness, any kind of it, it’s not in my best interest. I realized that when you...well...that’s all over now. Jon is leaving.”

He shot her an aggressively quizzical look, one that demanded her explain herself further. She did.

“It’s no secret that he hates you. I had to distance myself from you to inspire his confidence in me, and alleviate suspicion of your...influence...” 

She looked at him with darkened eyes, inhaling almost seductively before revealing her game.

“No one has called on Jon. I wrote the letter.”

“What?!” he whispered, so shocked at the risk and boldness of that move that it almost struck fear in him. She continued.

“His ship will sink before nightfall his first day at sea. He and his men will drown. Like rats. I’ve arranged it. And now I am left here to rule, as is my right.”

Lord Baelish’s mind spun. Every frustrating and discouraging moment in her presence these past few months had been part of a plan, and what a plan it was. And what was more, Sansa had played him in her game for the throne. So many feelings reeled in his mind; embarrassment that she had left him ignorant, pride that she had learned from his tutelage, desire for more information on the matter, and arousal from her cunning attitude. 

Quickly, the arousal swept any other feelings out of his mind.

They remained standing apart, him processing the past few months in a different light and her processing his reaction. That exercise of their minds suddenly ceased, and almost simultaneously they walked to meet each other in the middle of the room, then standing with just inches between their bodies.

Their breaths grew shaky as they took in the presence of one another in such close proximity. The smell of mint from his breath enraptured her, as did hers to him of lemon balm on her skin. 

He slowly raised his hand and took a tendril of her hair, then twirling it around his unadorned finger. He gulped as he took in the view of that most beautiful shade of red on his skin.

A glance downward revealed a muddled view of the hardened pink rosebuds of her breasts through the thin chemise. It caused such a burn in his center that his eyes fluttered, trying to keep his wits about him. She noticed his eyeline meeting her chest, and in a moment tied to nothing but physical desire, she pressed her breasts against him and sighed lustfully.

It inspired him to aggressiveness. 

He moved his hands to the small of her back to harshly pull her forward into him, their bodies clinging to each other like mating hawks falling from the sky. The slamming contact was harsh enough to where she clung to his cloak to keep her balance, and the beak of his mockingbird pin dug into her palm. Their faces graced each other softly for a moment before he hurried his lips forward and almost knocked her head backwards with a deep, inhaling kiss.

Despite the instant expectation that their encounter was heading toward intimacy, Sansa whimpered girlishly as if she was surprised.

Their kiss grew more frantic and deep, with each of them struggling to find enough breath to continue. She clumsily shuffled her feet further apart in an attempt to keep her balance so she could continue to receive the assault of his mouth. His increasing lust caused him to lose some sense of balance as well, and he briefly feared they would collapse onto the floor. He opened his eyes and glanced to the side, taking note of the direction and distance to her bed.

He shuffled his feet forward, guiding hers in turn, and they tripped on the cobblestones towards the large bed, translucent curtains drawn. Lord Baelish was still unsure of what would allow him to enjoy the intoxicating young woman pressed against him until her rear bumped against a bed post, causing the curtains to wave gently. After only a second of interpreting their position, he grasped for her rear. 

Lord Baelish lifted her upwards to sit on the edge of the bed and quickly began unlacing his britches to release his already hardened manhood. As he shuffled out of all of his clothes, Sansa leaned back to rest on her forearms and watched his body revealed to her more and more, the sprinklings of grey in his body hair sparkling in the firelight more readily than the black. She sighed and squeezed her thighs together, the aching in her nethers so great that it necessitated pressure of any sort.

As he finalized his state of undress, he scooted forward so his manhood pressed against her tightened knees. As soon as she felt the hot juices at the tip slicken a small area of her skin, she started to spread her legs apart and raise her chemise upwards. She breathed quickly and shallowly, her body so overwhelmed with the initial lessening of tensions that her lungs struggled to function.

Seeing her so moved served his lustfulness as much as the increasing amount of bare leg he saw, and he bit his bottom lip in a fruitless effort to stave off the intense burn of his member. Any reserve he hoped to have disappeared as she revealed more and more of the bared path to her womanhood. He quietly expressed his desire to her, one that had suddenly changed from concentration on his body to her own.

“Oh….I must taste you.” 

The frantic speed of their initial actions slowed. The privacy and environment of their current jointure allowed for so much more than a tryst, and he decided to reel in his aggression to savor every bit of it. Savoring her sex with his mouth was long overdue.

Sansa provided no response, but complied with Lord Baelish’s wordless guidance for her to lay back further up the bed. When her head touched the base of her pillows and he knelt at her center, he gripped her hip bones firmly while using his thumbs to press her legs open until she was completely spread. He rustled up her chemise the rest of the way until it puddled around her ribs, then relishing in the view of her bared to him; a palette of ivory, pink, and auburn ready for him and him alone.

He leaned his face into her womanhood, nestling his nose against her button and squirming his mouth and bearded chin in her folds. She crooked her neck backwards and grasped her quilt with her hands in fists. Between deeper nuzzlings, he muttered his desires to her quietly.

“Ohhh...my love...every part of you...this...oh gods...oh...I need it.”

His lustful whispers into her burning womanhood caused pain to radiate deep inside of her. It was an ache that only his tongue could soothe, and she moved her hands to run her fingers through his hair before instinctively grasping and pulling him further inwards. He groaned as his face was greeted by more of her wetness, and his tongue entered her tunnel to begin pulsing inwards and outwards.

Sansa threw her head back and sighed through a grimacing mouth as Lord Baelish pleasured her. She had not had the gift of his mouth since their first night together, and the time elapsed made it feel like it was the first time all over again. Every ache in her womanhood was being both increased and relieved in alternating patterns as his tongue swirled and darted; he groaned into her as his member hardened further from the taste alone.

The only touch she could give him was her fingers running through his greying hair and against his scalp. It was like steel on flint, with sparks of pleasure popping between her fingers and every nerve on his head. The sole reaction he could provide was to exert more of himself, and he began dragging his flattened tongue from her entrance to her button and lapping short firm strokes upwards on that most sensitive spot. The more she whimpered, the more he lingered on her button, and he surmised that she was well on her way. 

Still, minutes passed without progression and despite his enthusiastic worship of her womanhood, his mouth grew tired. His member had remained neglected during his oral pursuits, and with her journey seemingly stalling he recognized an opportunity to guide her to something they had not yet done.

In one firm, upward stroke of his flattened tongue, Lord Baelish ceased his efforts in her womanhood. So concentrated was Sansa on her slowing journey that she grasped her quilt in frustration and lifted her head to shoot him a confused look. In spite of her expression, Lord Baelish smirked as he finalized her state of undress while dragging his tongue up her body; over her navel, drifting sideways to her rib cage, and then inward to trace circles around the rosebuds on her breasts, hardened to the firmness of stone. He began a slow ascent to his knees until he looked down upon her from the side, completely unclothed, her green eyes staring back at him in such dilation that they appeared animalistic. 

He stared at her for a moment. Sansa Stark. His once naive mentee, someone he had once pitied as a sweet girl. Learnt by him in so many ways. Bare and wet beneath him.

Lord Baelish widened his stance on his knees beside her face, and ran his hand through her hair to guide her mouth to his member, heavy with blood and bobbing in front of her. Sansa, although tortured from her unfulfilled climax, was able to provide the service he so desired. Propping herself up slightly on her elbow, she brought her free hand to him and surrounded his thickness completely. As she stroked him slowly, she pushed her tongue forward to swivel around the head in a serpentine manner. He exhaled in sensual relief and dropped his head backwards to stare up at the ceiling, the plain beams allowing him to concentrate his senses on the activities of her lips and tongue. Despite the incredible pleasure she was providing, he remained wanting, and he pushed himself past her lips until half of his manhood was inside of her mouth. Her whimpers as he passed over the top of her tongue caused vibrations that increased his stimulation even further. In a slow but natural progression, she began sucking and stroking his member concurrently, as enticed by his increased moaning as his thickness filled her mouth all the way down to the base. 

Sansa squirmed on the bed, her womanhood so sensitive and full of longing that she thought she could feel it quiver. She strived to maintain her attentions on Lord Baelish, but the fire burning at her center was running too hot to be managed by will alone. 

Whining around him and kicking the quilt into a wrinkled mess eventually brought him to the realization of her needing his touch. Reaching down, he slid his hand across her thigh and cupped her mound gently. He stroked her mound over and over, torturing her as she lurched her hips upward in an attempt to feel the gift of his fingers in deeper regions. It took every ounce of strength in him to put some of his mind into something other than the feeling of her mouth, but he persisted. In a swift movement, he slipped two fingers into her folds and dragged them to her button, carrying with them the hot juices that flowed from her. 

It took but a minute of twirling the pads of his fingers on Sansa’s swollen button for her to feel the initial pangs of approaching climax. The increasing stillness of her body conveyed the same to him, and he ensured he kept a steady pace. With a complete ceasing of movement and a whimper around his member, she reached the point of ecstasy, the contractions of her womanhood obvious even from the very front of her where he kept his fingers firm. He groaned inelegantly through his teeth as the vibrations from her mouth brought him to the edge, his balls slightly tightening in preparation to fill her mouth with his seed. It took all of his resolve not to empty himself at that very moment as he gazed down at her through heavy lidded eyes, her body climaxing in its entirety beneath him.

As Sansa passed the apex of her ecstasy, Lord Baelish subtly pushed her head backwards by her now tangled auburn waves. She let her mouth and hand slide off of him, now realizing that he was struggling to contain himself. His dark blue and her green eyes locked, a stormy sea meeting a lush grassed shore with only crashing waves of passion between them. The knowing sparkle in his blue showed he was not only craving her body, but a continued opportunity to learn her in the game of passion. His voice surprised her after reeling in the silence of their assignation for so long.

“My lady, I need you. All of you.”

Sansa tilted her chin dowards, batting her eyes in a silent message that she was unsure of what he specifically wanted.

Lord Baelish allowed his legs to both slide dowards on the bed until he lay on his side, pressing against her laying flat on her back. Sansa made no movements not initiated by him due to her inexperience, and found herself being rolled onto her side with him behind her, one of his arms wrapped under and around her, cupping her breasts; the other softly holding her upward hip. His head crept forward until his face rested on the back of her cheek, beard tickling her jaw. He whispered to her in a tone equal parts affection and instruction as he melded into a complete spoon around her.

“Tilt this towards me.”

He drew his hand back to rest on her backside and pulled it gently. She did as he asked and felt the heat, moisture, and length of his manhood slide down the cleft of her rear. Feeling her shivers and hesitation, he nuzzled gently behind her ear in a show of comfort. It elicited a whimper which made him struggle not to plunge into her at full speed.

When Sansa’s rear was at its best angle, Lord Baelish flexed his own and pushed his member past her folds and into her soaked tunnel. They both released pained sighs at the sensation, after which he began slow thrusts into her deepest regions. Breathing into her neck, He squeezed her breasts together as he made love to her at a medium pace, occasionally letting a thumb drift over to roll her hardened rosebuds in circles, which elicited a tightening of her tunnel around him. Intermittently, he paused to remain fully sheathed for a few moments while he flexed his manhood and growled quietly into her neck. 

Sansa drew her free arm upwards and wrapped it around the back of Lord Baelish’s head, running her fingers through his hair. He relished every inch of her flesh that touched him; her smooth shoulders pressing into his collarbones, the feel of her rear propped against the trail of hair leading to his manhood, and her fingers scratching his head ever so subtly.

From her steady breathing and girlish moans he could tell she was enjoying him making love to her, but he craved maintaining a teaching role in some capacity. Hopefully, even, he could bring her to a state where she could take charge. He whispered into her ear with a suggestion she struggled to work through in her mind.

“My lady, you can lead, if you so wish.”

She racked her mind to come up with a movement or position to attempt, but her inexperience proved that fruitless. Not knowing what to do next, she simply kept close to him and continued to receive his thrusts.

Lord Baelish sensed her hesitance, but instead of challenging her to continue thinking on their next moves, he provided her with a suggestion.

“Here, my love, try this way.”

With a delicate firmness, his deft hands dragged her rear further up his body, his manhood slipping out all of the way. He drew his hand upwards and pushed her upper body away from him on the bed, all the while lightly scratching the space between the shoulderblades on which his hand rested. Shivers ran up her spine, and he groaned quietly as he saw her skin rise into the tiniest of bumps.

He shuffled to the head of the bed, finding a seat completely upright against plush pillows. Sansa looked up the bed, the image of him completely bare with his manhood magnificently engorged and in need of her causing a loss of breath. She rose to her hands and knees and crawled up his side, running her hand up his thigh to meet and grasp his throbbing manhood.

Lord Baelish closed his eyes and groaned at the sensation, but wanted to provide her with an opportunity to learn how completely lead their liaisons. He opened his eyes and reiterated his wish for her proximity with a gentle upwards pull of her forearm.

“Oh, my love...this way.”

Sansa crawled up until their faces were level. Then, with a graceful swing of her leg, she straddled him. As she found her balance, he spoke.

“Now do as you will.” he whispered. “Make me feel what you want me to feel.”

She was playing the game for the throne so well, he wanted to see how she could play the most private game of all.

The almost challenging look in his eyes was enough to spark the desire to take charge, and so she did. 

She had been on top of him before, but the way they were now allowed her to move in a way that let her make more of the moves that led to ecstasy; a way that gave her such a ready eyeline into his that she could manipulate his pleasure from the fire in her eyes alone. Yes, she would make efforts to bring him to climax, but she would doing it in the way that she wanted to, without any of his input or physical guidance. The power she felt in shaping how he reached his peak immediately made her drunk with power.

Pulling him close to her by the scruff of his neck, she brought his forehead to meet hers as she rocked her hips backwards before finding the angle at which he slipped inside of her with a forceful grace. She began rolling her hips at a steady pace to allow him to both exit her completely, and also reach the deepest parts of her womanhood. Every moment his member spent outside of her caused him to grimace and feel a biological level of longing. 

She rode him for almost half an hour, bringing him to the edge again and again before taking action that denied him the release. If staying sheathed him brought him too close, she would let him slide out of her and place his hands on her breasts. If he seemed to need the feel of her breasts in his hands to cross the line, she guided them away. If the rhythm of their sex started to challenge his resolve, she bared her weight down and stayed still upon him.

He had never felt so wretched and so pleasured at the same time. 

She repeatedly found him with eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape, obviously enjoying such pleasure from her movements that he was struggling to stay present in his own mind. Still, she would bump his forehead with her own to silently instruct him to look at her. Her eyes burned into his like ignited wildfire, and his returned gaze of both rapture and passiveness brought out a sensual power in her she had never before felt.

The intensity of one such gaze proved too much for him to handle, and his head sunk down to rest between her breasts. He began to quietly mutter into them almost unintelligible affections.

“Unh...oh my gods...oh...Sansa...yes...oh gods...oh I love you...unh!”

At that moment, with his labored professions of love heating up the skin of her chest, she felt as she never had before. She was, in a way, simply in bed with him; but the already established connection of their ambitions and their bodies suddenly incorporated something else. Her chest grew heavy with a feeling she was unfamiliar with but understood. It was love for him.

His calls to both Sansa and higher powers began to fade, and he struggled to stay upright. As his mind faded into the blackness to which an climaxing mind descends, he quieted. His hands became limp and his head fell back to rest against the headboard. Nevertheless, she continued to steadily impale herself upon his sword.

His manhood suddenly throbbed so strongly within her that she felt as if he was intentionally flexing, but soon figured that it was simply his body losing all control. She was so intoxicated with his loss of control that she felt compelled to further it with labored but instructing speech. 

“Oh...you’re...give me...let go...go on and...”

Lord Baelish turned the corner, barely emitting a sigh as Sansa bared her weight down while he emptied himself. She was enjoying the almost graceful innocence of his first release under her lead, but as he pulsed inside of her she was soon made cognizant of the wicked fact that he was giving her such a prolific amount of his seed that it was already dripping out while he was still inside of her. Tiny streams of white ran down from her folds to the base of his manhood, then trailing to their inner thighs, like spilled cream trickling down the sides of a teacup.

The pulsing of his member ceased long enough for Sansa to know that he was on the other side. As gracefully as possible, she rolled her hips backwards and let his manhood slip out, eliciting a stream of his seed to puddle below them. They slowly looked downwards to see the river of juices flow over skin and fabric, then meeting each other's’ gaze, both lush with affection. He felt at that moment that he was seeing further into her eyes than he ever had, which made his desire that she return his affections grow more excruciating. 

After several minutes of him wandering through the endless bounds in her eyes, she spoke.

“I....” she paused as perplexity turned up one side of her mouth ever so slightly.

He sighed and furrowed his brow as much as his tired muscles would allow.

“I’m a slow learner, it’s true. But I do learn.”

His brow failed to relax, not sure to where her line of thought was headed.

“Sansa...I-”

“And I’ve now come to learn, just now, that...I...I love you.”

“You what?” he whispered.

His response was less of a challenge for her to explain herself than an internal question to determine if this moment was real.

“Petyr, I love you.”

Instead of responding with words, he mustered all of his strength to lace his hands through her hair and pull her face into his. The softest of kisses followed, and they wrapped around each other, completely oblivious to the sweat, seed, wetness, tangled hair, and flushed skin that enveloped their entirety.

Pauses in the locking of their mouths allowed for them to speak, but only long enough for them to do so in a brief but affectionate manner.

“Oh, Petyr.”

“My Sansa.”

Their utterances to each other using their plain names furthered the intimacy of their post-coital bliss. Just a while ago, they appeared in public, their names standing firm as Lord Baelish and Lady Sansa. A simple oak door locked them away from that world, and they existed simply as Petyr and Sansa. In two days’ time, she would once again not be simply Sansa, but Queen. The underlying sentiment of impatience for her ascension was strong, but they drifted back to each other in ways only true lovers can, their all-encompassing embrace creating such power that the room disappeared and only the night sky surrounded them, it’s frigid expanse the only thing that could rival their love.

“Two days’ time, my love.” Sansa whispered.

Lord Baelish smiled lazily, sleep pulling on his eyelids like weights.

“Two days.”


End file.
